


From Our Youth to the Ground

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Gen, Magic, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23692435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: Had he known how wrong everything would go, he would have made so many different choices.Had he known that, even after death, he would find himself trying to influence his King, his Uncle who he'd once belov'd so much he would have given his life for him, he may have taken a Vow, made some sort of binding promise to some higher power in exchange for understanding whatconsequencetruly meant.Had he known when he first met Uncle-King Arthur how horribly twisted a legacy could become while still retaining its core, he may have burned Camelot down to the ground before he took up a Knight's oath, if only to save them both the fates they were about to suffer.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Part of His Legacy

Had he known how wrong everything would go, he would have made so many different choices.

Had he known that, even after death, he would find himself trying to influence his King, his Uncle who he'd once belov'd so much he would have given his life for him, he may have taken a Vow, made some sort of binding promise to some higher power in exchange for understanding what _consequence_ truly meant.

Had he known when he first met Uncle-King Arthur how horribly twisted a legacy could become while still retaining its core, he may have burned Camelot down to the ground before he took up a Knight's oath, if only to save them both the fates they were about to suffer.

–

'Twas sixteen years and a winter from his birth when Gawain was sent to his Uncle's court. Barely a man's wit and nowhere near a man's height or breadth, he feared his youth and inexperience would keep him from the high tables despite sharing the King's blood, attached by his grandmother, the mother of his mother and the King both.

His father had tried to rebel against Arthur – out of want of power or anger over what Arthur's father had done to his mother's mother, he was unsure – and had lost like everyone else who had tried to take a stand against his uncle, against Camelot. Gawain had been old enough to be someone's page when the rebellion had been put down like a rabid dog rather than raged like a proper war. As such, he had assumed Arthur must have had years of practice at strategy and planning alike to be able to act so swiftly after Uther's death.

Gawain grew up hearing Arthur spoken of in whispers, as adults are prone to doing when they think a child too young to remember what is being said, or too uninterested to be paying attention. His Uncle, he gathered, was supposed to be a secret, something to come, someone who would change the world. He wanted so badly to be a part of his Uncle's legacy.

When he was finally granted permission, he could not leave fast enough. He traveled alone despite his parents' request to take a small guard with him. He wanted to appear ready to be a Knight, not some princeling that needed to be babysat on the open road. He brought his own shield and wore the finery of his own father's court on his final day of travel despite what little protection they offered him from the elements.

When he was welcomed at the gates, there was no fanfare, no countless rounds of questioning, none of the things he had imagined when he came to Camelot. He was lead to a set of rooms – two, to be exact, not separated but the indent of the wall about two-thirds of the way down the space made it clear they were meant to be considered two things with one door to the rest of the castle.

There were no furnishings, no objects that said this space was ever inhabited or otherwise meant to hold guests of any esteem. He was told the King would be told of his coming, to settle any of his belongings in the rooms and then to feel free to look around.

He sat his bag down, the travel cloak that had done its best to keep him warm draped over the thing. He strapped his sword around his waist and shield to his arm, hoping he did not look to be a threat to the realm as he set off down the drafty corridors.

His first order of business was to find something to eat. The road had been hard and he had over-estimated how easy it would be to find or forage food on nights he camped between towns, He wandered more than walked, hoping he might eventually catch a whiff of the kitchens and follow his nose the rest of the way.

The castle of Camelot was much larger and more maze-like than the castle of Orkney he'd grown up in, and as such he was beginning to lose hope of finding either the kitchens or the way back to his room as the sun began to set and the little light the windows had let in faded.

“Oi,” he was caught off-guard when someone near twice his size grabbed his upper arm, “yer the Orkney boy, eh?”

“I am,” Gawain straightened himself up as much as he could, refusing to flinch away despite the other man looking like he could break him in half with one arm tied behind his back, “I am,” he said again, a little pride finding its way into the assertion. The stranger wore simple garb with flecks of oil and other food stains on it. His hair was tied back flat against his head, no braids or trinkets that normally marked a warrior or a well-traveled man.

However, the tattoos that wound around his neck, face, hands, arms, anywhere that was exposed, told a story of someone who, despite looking maybe a decade older than Gawain himself, had seen what the world had to offer and went _no, thanks, this world, this life is not not for me._

“Where've ya been?” the stranger asked, “They tried t' get ya t' present ya t' the King.”

Gawain refused to let himself deflate, not in public and not in front of someone who seemed to hold himself higher than the rest of the world.

“I was told I was free to explore,” Gawain did not try to tug his arm free from the other man's grip, but it was beginning to frighten him the little effort it took to hold him in place. He fancied himself strong, unyielding, but he was beginning to wonder if his father failed in the rebellion because Orkney just did not know what strength was.

“I suppose ya are,” the stranger finally let go, “but yer a hard one t' track down. Ya missed dinner.”

Gawain unleashed a string of curses, then covered his mouth and looked up to see if the stranger had anything to say about his outburst. The stranger, thankfully, looked amused.

“C'mon,” the stranger motioned for Gawain to follow him, “ya need food an' then ya need t' meet yer Uncle.”

Gawain followed this man, this stranger, who seemed to know more about him than he was letting on, his stomach protesting the thought of any further questions.

–

“Cei!” a voice boomed from somewhere outside the kitchens, “Cei, so help me, if you're working instead of helping us I will have your hide!”

“Yer assumptions I can't do both is insulting!” the stranger – Cei – called back, his voice carrying without any obvious effort or exertion. Gawain wondered how often he yelled.

“Cei,” the voice's owner was in the kitchens, “what are you – oh.” 

Gawain felt the newcomer staring at him, weighing him against whatever was on the opposing end of his mental scales that Gawain was not privy to.

“I found 'im,” Cei said, “and I fed 'im.”

“I see,” the stranger's finery was beyond Gawain's wildest imaginations, but his face was youthful, his beard almost patchy as if it was still learning how to grace the man's face, “Well done, Cei.”

Cei turned to Gawain, the look in his eyes almost predatory, “I want a witness he said that.”

“Please, Cei,” the stranger rolled his eyes, “like I wouldn't have said that were other people here.”

Cei, for his part, huffed and crossed his arms. “Anyways, I found yer nephew.”

Gawain's brain quickly slid the necessary pieces in place.

“My King,” Gawain went down on one knee so quickly he forgot to put his food on the counter, so there he was, in the kitchens so late at night only the torches offered their light, with the King himself, half-eaten pheasant pie threatening to begin leaking on the floor as a result of his clumsy, impulsive, panicked bow.

“Please, up,” his Uncle said, “and please, when there are no others around, call me Arthur.”

Gawain looked at Cei, trying to figure out how to ask nicely why someone of a low station would not count as an other.

“I see you've met Cei,” Arthur's ability to read Gawain seemed to be endless, “though I suspect he forwent any introductions.” Gawain nodded and Arthur continued: “He was my foster-brother and now cares for anything Camelot needs to keep running behind the scenes, so to speak: the people, the taxes, the kitchen.”

“The feast days, the funerals, the welcoming parties,” Cei continued, “which, I am assuming yer gonna want one fer your nephew now that he's arrived.”

Arthur nodded. Cei just looked annoyed.

“Gawain,” Arthur called him by name, “tomorrow, if you would be so inclined, I would like you to spar against five of my Knights so that I can see what you have learned in the arts of fighting and where you are in your journey to becoming a Knight.”

“Absolutely!” Gawain rose to his feet, part of his pie falling. Cei was there almost instantly with a rag, scooping up the chunks with half the thing and wiping the liquids with the rest.

“Excellent,” Arthur chuckled, “Now, please, finish your food and then walk with me.”

Gawain wasn't sure if he chewed anything before he swallowed. He used the edge of his sleeve to wipe his face before he nodded, hoping his Uncle took that as his cue that he was ready to go where ever he was expected to go.

–

It had rained overnight, but the rain had frozen the ground solid. Still, Gawain was determined to show what he was made of, determined to show what he was worth despite his stature. He had not brought armor – it was too much for one horse to carry and now he was kicking himself for not bringing at least people to carry more of his stuff for him – so he was facing someone whose name he hadn't registered long enough to remember while their both wielded wooden practice sword. Still, they were as long as regular swords and would still hurt with two people used to handling real swords as their masters.

This opponent – he suspected the first of many – was nowhere near as large as Cei but still had him outclassed in every physical aspect. He bore a long scar across his face and Gawain suspected his winter garb hid many, many more scars, reminders of whatever he had been through.

Gawain knew the only scars he bore were faint ones, save the ones he'd received from his Aunt Morgan at his request – a dual removal to correct some things he'd feared his parents would disown him for rather than recognize him as their first-born son – and they were barely a year old, still painful sometimes when he over-extended his chest muscles. Still, those were not scars that would show in normal situation, and so for now he seemed too smooth-skinned, too fresh, too small to be considered an actual threat.

“You ready lad?” his opponent asked.

“Ready!” Gawain nodded.

He circled his opponent, keeping out of melee range until he could gauge where he favored protecting with his elbows and where he left open.

He was not surprised when his opponent lunged forward first despite the ice they stood on. Gawain slid to the side rather than stepped, letting the force of the movement take him out of the strike's way. His opponent, not expecting that level of grace on ice, overshot completely. Gawain brought his practice sword down on the Knight's back.

“Ya'd be dead in a areal fight, Bors,” Cei called from the side of the training ring, “Git out an' let the next one try.”

Bors grunted and crawled to the fence and used it to pull himself up, unable to get his feet stable under him on the ice. His face was red, embarrassed, almost furious.

Someone else Gawain had never seen stepped over the fence. He knew he could not use that trick twice, so he'd have to figure something else to keep himself in whatever sort of makeshift tournament he'd found himself at the center of.

“Ready?” Gawain asked this time.

“Aye,” the stranger nodded. He had a glint in his eye that made Gawain a little nervous. Nevertheless, he held still, defensive, waiting to see what the other man did.

The stranger took a few steps to all sides, testing how his shoes gripped – or, rather, lacked traction – before he headed towards Gawain. He ran a few steps and then let himself slide towards Gawain, sword extended from where he'd tucked his arm to his side, free arm behind his back for balance.

Gawain shifted his sword to his other hand and met his opponent's sword, the things locking hilt-to hilt. Gawain bashed his forehead into his opponent's face. The other man yelped and went down, red blood staining the white-clear ice.

“Not dead but definitely out,” Cei said from the sidelines, “Next!”

Gawain did not learn his opponent's name, or the names of the next two, the rounds ending so quickly Cei seemed more embarrassed of them than for them.

“Final one,” Cei said as Gawain's fourth opponent shuffled out of the training ring, “Bedivere, you ready?”

“Always,” his final opponent – Bedivere – said to Cei rather than Gawain.

Gawain was getting tired, his muscles tense to keep his balance and arms feeling the repetitive blows despite none of them actually hitting _him_.

Bedivere seemed relaxed, walking on the ice as if it was normal dirt despite his soleless leather shoes. He was missing an arm – a thing Gawain had always assumed barred one from Knighthood – and had a number of scars, some that bit into his intricate tattoos, whatever injuries he sustained having been so violent they removed the ink entirely. That he had not re-inked them meant he wanted to be reminded of whatever had happened.

He was tall, too, thought still not as tall as Cei, his hair braided before having been tied back.

“Are ya ready?” Bedivere asked while Gawain stared.

“I am ready,” Gawain remembered why he was there in the first place, “Are you?”

Bedivere just laughed and lunged at Gawain without measuring his strike. Gawain was able to side-step him with ease, thinking this would be a repeat of the first round, but Bedivere was able to turn on his heel and block Gawain's sword.

Gawain pushed off using his sword, sliding back and trying to find an opening but Bedivere was _right there_ again, this time able to knock Gawain's sword such that it was pointing down instead of, well, any direction Gawain could have found use for it.

Bedivere twisted his wrist and his sword twisted with it, knocking Gawain's sword just enough so Gawain went off-balance. He tried to correct the balance issue, but Bedivere's sword was quite suddenly under his armpit.

Gawain had never felt the pressure on his weapon change.

“Dead in a real fight,” Cei said it like he had when the others failed, but Gawain felt the words etch themselves into his soul.

“Well done!” Arthur said, “Very well done, Gawain.”

“But I lost,” Gawain was staring where Bedivere's sword had been, Bedivere still standing in front of him.

Bedivere tucked the sword under what remained of his non-arm and used his now free hand to clap Gawain on the shoulder.

“No one's beat Bedivere,” Bors said from the sidelines.

“But you did beat Bors, Lionel, Caradoc, and Pellinore,” Arthur said, “four of the most experienced Knights.”

Gawain's jaw fell open and his eyes went wide, having not known the stakes he was up against.

“There is no more you could learn in the training ring,” Arthur told him. Before Gawain asked what he meant, Arthur continued, “Kneel, Gawain.”

Gawain did, the ice freezing despite the hardiness of the fabric. He lowered his head for good measure. Arthur walked towards him – like Bedivere, seemingly immune to the ice – and unstrapped the sword from his side.

Gawain was Knighted in the middle of the frozen land, a thing so unexpected and yet so fitting for reasons Gawain wound not understand for years and years.

“Rise, Sir Gawain,” his Uncle told him, “Rise and join us at the Round Table.”

Gawain was so quick to comply he nearly slipped. Arthur steadied him with his free hand and chuckled.

Oh yes. He was going to be a part of his Uncle's legacy.

He was going to change the future.


	2. Green in the Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Feast is interrupted by the most curious guest. Gawain winds up in a debt his honor demands he follow through on, regardless of the devastation it will cause.
> 
> The funny thing about facing your own death is the honesty it brings out.

It was his third winter at Camelot – two full turning of the seasons – and he had found life as one of his Uncle's Knights to fit him like a custom suit of armor. He belonged here, with these men, as Knight instead of life at Orkney as a Prince waiting to become King.

He had, under constant training, Camelot's bounty, and Cei's careful, almost parental watch despite the man's sharp tongue and stinging wit, finally filled out his frame enough to look as if a single blow from another Knight would not snap him in half. He had found, too, that he could spar for longer without having to rely on dodge moves to get or keep the upper hand. These Knights, not only the ones he shared training and drink and food with, but the ones Arthur had invited into his innermost fold to join him at his Round Table had taught Gawain more in two years than his sixteen years at Orkney had afforded him.

This, truly, was why Arthur won despite his inexperienced youth during the rebellions that had tried to capitalize on Uther's death.

Gawain had joined the Knights at the Round Table, a near-sacred chamber where they were few in number but unrivaled in power, where King Arthur's decisions were weighed in on by a jury of his equals in both prowess and wit. The honor and weight of duty both sat on his shoulders in a way that squared him up for any fight, readied him for any task.

The past summer, Arthur had married a maiden named Guinevere. His Queen was a small number of years younger than Gawain himself, but her beauty exceeded anything Gawain had ever heard of. She was, as far as he could see, physically flawless. She held herself like a Queen who knew she was the power behind the King's throne from the moment she set foot in Camelot. She had, Gawain figured, been good for Arthur in at least a few days, as his decision-making process had become much more long-term since his marriage.

Gawain's second brother, Agrivane, had come down with their parents and other three brothers for the wedding, and Agrivane had elected to stay in Camelot despite still being a year's span away from being of age to be Knighted. Agrivane had taken one look at the changes in Gawain and decided he wanted whatever Gawain had been privy to, and that was that.

Agrivane had been slower than Gawain in adjusting to Camelot's atmosphere, the crowds often too much for the younger Orkney to handle, the extra hours of intense practice not settling on Agrivane's body as it had Gawain's. There was a resentment brewing under Agrivane's skin, Gawain could tell, but he still felt the drive to try to help his brother maintain equal footing. This had only served to anger Agrivane, but still, Gawain had not found it in him to give up on his brother.

–

The winter's feast was the high point of the coldest months, a time where, no matter station or renown, everyone came together in the great halls to eat, drink, and celebrating being halfway out of the darkness.

Gawain sat at a place of pride at the King's High Table while Agrivane sat a few tables lower, not having earned his place among Camelot's elite yet. Gawain kept looking towards his brother, trying to gauge his mood, but Agrivane seemed to always been looking away from him, back turned, a clear signal he did not want Gawain's concern or worse, Gawain's pity.

All the concern he had for his brother was forgotten when an armored giant sporting a faint green glow despite the metal that cocooned him and a large axe decked in holly crashed the celebration. The stranger marched directly to the high table, guards of all stages of sobriety and utter lack thereof scrambling to stop this giant of a man until Arthur rose to his feet with one hand up, telling the entire feast hall to freeze where they were.

And they did.

The visitor took his helmet off and, yep, there was green just _everywhere_ from his skin to his head to his eyes, so bright he was his own personal source of light.

“Well met, King Pendragon,” the stranger said, “I come to challenge anyone who might take me up on it to a duel with conditions.”

“And what would these conditions be?” King Arthur asked, his voice carrying perfectly from the years of training to do just that without harming himself.

“Whoever takes up the challenge gets one swing with my axe,” the stranger's voice carried, too, not unlike a King's, “and in exactly one year and one day he will meet me at,” it was a long, tangled word Gawain missed almost entirely, “to receive the same wound.”

With that, the stranger threw his right gauntlet onto the ground in front of him, the crashing sound it made as it landed echoing in the disturbingly silent hall.

For a long moment – too long a moment – no one moved, no one said anything, no one took up the challenge, the visitor clearly from the Otherworld and the stakes too easy for something deeper to not be at play.

Arthur, having had enough of everyone's unwillingness to step up, took a step forward as if to climb over the table.

Gawain, seeing his uncle move and realizing that _Camelot's King_ was about to take up the gauntlet, was faster at vaulting over the table, scooping up the thing, and holding it high in the air.

“I'll do it!” Gawain shouted, knowing his voice did not carry, “I accept your challenge.”

“Very good,” the stranger looked delighted, “Who might you be, young Sir?”

“Gawain,” Gawain said his own name in a rush, “I am Sir Gawain,”

“Very well, then, Sir Gawain,” the stranger handed him his axe but did not move to replace his helmet, “you make take your one swing.”

Gawain gripped the axe's long handle, the thing too long for him to wield well and so heavy he knew he was going to have to aim better than simply _well_ and let the force of the swing do most of the work for him.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, summoned everything he had learned in the past two years into his very soul, opened his eyes, and took his swing.

He cut the stranger's head clean off.

There was a collective gasp, the feast hall coming alive again, the shock rippling outward like Gawain was a stone thrown into a calm pond, or perhaps a boulder, something that would change the shape of the pond's bed permanently.

He waited there, limbs shaking, mouth hanging open, chest heaving as if he could not get enough air in his lungs, waited for the body to fall.

When the body picked its head up and the head kept talking, Gawain feared he may wet himself. Screams rose throughout the hall, though as far as Gawain could tell none of them were his.

King Arthur slammed his cup against the table three times in quick succession, the noise having an instant attention-harnessing effect on the feast hall.

“In one year plus one day, Sir Gawain,” the head said as it was tucked under its owner's arm, “I will see you at ,” again, Gawain heard the word in theory but missed it entirely in practice, “for the return swing.”

With that, the stranger left with the same march he'd entered with, just shorter and with helmet under one arm, head under the other.

The hall erupted into sheer chaos. Arthur sighed and gave a quiet, “With me,” before exiting the feast hall. Everyone who heard him followed him out.

–

“What have you done?” Agrivane had seen the miniaturized exodus and followed, “Gawain, damn you, what have you done!?”

“I don't know,” Gawain's voice was empty, “I don't know. I don't even know where I'm supposed to meet him.”

“You leave Camelot by the Southern road, follow it for five suns, head over the mountain where there is no path, follow the church bells,” Cei said.

“And then you leave the town with the bells from the East, follow the winding road for a day to the clearing, and kneel by the stream until you are shown the chapel in the woods,” Bedivere picked up.

“What?” Gawain wasn't sure if he was asking what just happened or what they meant.

“You Welsh bastards are a little frightening,” Bors said with no heat in his words.

“The name was directions,” Bedivere explained, “We hear Welsh directions and automatically divide up the memorization.”

“Of course you do,” Bors shook his head, “How do you even...nevermind, we have more important things to deal with.”

“Namely,” Arthur looked at his nephew, “that you are now scheduled to receive what will more than likely be a death blow in a year and a day.”

“I'd say definitely but well,” Guinevere looked towards the door, “seems there are exceptions to every rule.”

“He's Fair Folk,” Lionel sounded sure of himself, “Where ever you're going, you are going to the Fair Folk.”

“No shit,” Bors kicked Lionel's ankle, “Not helpful.”

“Was that why no one took up the gauntlet?” Gawain asked. He felt so small, so uneducated all of the sudden. His Uncle nodded.

“It is indeed,” Arthur closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Had I picked it up and dealt the same blow with the same results, there would have been a battle in the middle of the Feast hall and no one would have come out the victor. And, while I am thankful you beat me to it for that reason alone, what drove you to action, Gawain?”

“You're the King,” Gawain said like it was obvious, “You are infinitely more important to Camelot, to the Table, than I am.”

“Oh Nephew,” when Arthur said it, it sounded like pity, “spend the year making your peace with your soul, please.”

Gawain had no idea how to even start chipping away at a request like that.

–

“You could still back out,” Agrivane told him as he helped Gawain saddle his horse, “Flee and hope the Green Knight never finds you.”

“He's Fair Folk,” Gawain pointed out, “I am pretty sure he'd find me if I didn't keep my word.”

“You're handling this _you're going to die_ thing remarkably well,” Agrivane did not mean it as a compliment.

“Not the first time I've faced my death,” Gawain shrugged, “Take care of mom and the little ones, will you?”

“Naturally,” Agrivane nodded, “Ride well.”

“Thanks,” Gawain tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.

That near a year and a day since he had beheaded the Green Knight in the middle of the feast hall had come to pass so quickly frightened him. He had sent word to his mother of what had transpired, and his mother had sent a letter back that had clearly been marred with tears, the ink splotchy in places and penmanship uneven, telling him how much she loved him and how much she regretted that he must find his end in such a manner. Still, she had praised his dedication to his word, assured him that was what a true Knight would do. It made him feel a tiny bit better about what he was riding towards.

Arthur had promised Gawain a proper mourning period where his rooms would remain untouched and the mourning band would be worn by all, beginning the evening after the winter feast. Gawain did not understand the gesture, but did not try to talk his Uncle out of it.

Gawain mounted his horse from a feed bucket, the beast too tall for him to jump up onto from the ground.

“See you on the other side,” Agrivane said to him as he kicked his horse into motion.

“I hope it's a long, long while,” Gawain managed a strained laugh.

–

The five days down the southern path were lonely, cold things. He took the “five suns” literally, traveling from sunup to sundown, both setting and taking down camp in the dark. 

Much of the bags he packed were feed for his horse, figuring the horse needed more than he did, especially if the horse was to find its way back to people to be recaptured and, hopefully, moved on to someone who would be kind to the beast despite its ornery nature.

The horse managed to get him up and over the mountain with no trouble despite the lack of a clear path. There had not been a set number of days to the mountain crossing, but Gawain had left three weeks before he was due to kneel at the stream and had always been horrible at keeping track of days when he did not have to, so how long he spent on the mountain was beyond him.

At the foot of the mountain, he waited until he heard church bells to move again. He was unsure how often the bells rang, but he used the sound to triangulate the town's location until he finally found it. He'd walked through the night, desperate to find the place, had walked his horse through unfamiliar ground rather than rode the animal.

When he finally arrived at the town, he found a stall for his horse and a warm inn room for himself. It felt silly, if he was being honest with himself, seeking comfort when he knew in a few days' time the world would be going on without him, but still, he would take comfort as he found it, even if it would not help the end result.

He accepted a warm bowl of stew and mg of ale before retiring for the evening, the covers slightly musty and scratchy but _warm_. He found himself asleep before he knew it.

–

He woke the next morning as the sun was still coming over the horizon, the brightness sending a panic through him. He hurried to saddle his horse and start our on the winding road to the east, still unsure how many days he had left to live.

Near the end of the day, he came across a man cutting wood near the side of the road.

“Excuse me, sir,” Gawain called out to him, “Can you tell me how many days until the Winter Feasts would be held?”

“Three, young lad,” the man replied, his voice familiar in a way Gawain could not place, “Why do you ask?”

“Then I have four days, thank you,” Gawain nodded, now unsure how he was going to fill those days. He knew he did not have near the time to return to Camelot, so it was either head back to town for what, at this point, would likely only be two days in town or camp for three days in the woods and find the stream on the forth day.

“Where are you headed?” the man asked.

“To fulfill my word,” Gawain answered, “It's important to me.”

“Theere is no need to justify yourself to me,” the man waved him off, “but if you have four days, why not come spend it with my wife and I? We live not too far from here.”

“I'd like that,” Gawain said before he could think, not wanting to insult the man's hospitality.

“Come then,” the man waved him closer, “help me get these dead branches down and we can both get back inside sooner.”

Gawain did as he was told, willing to write the familiarity off as a last-gasp effort to find something familiar to ground him in his final days.

–

The house was bigger on the inside than the exterior had suggested, and almost impossibly warm. Gawain felt bad for his horse out in the frozen pasture, but he supposed that was what the beast's winter coat was for.

“My dearest,” the man called into the house, “we have a guest for the next few days!”

“A guest?” a woman's voice came from somewhere inside the house, “I wasn't expecting any guests.” She came to the threshold where Gawain and her husband were shedding their exterior garments. “Oh, hello there!” she said once she got a good look at Gawain, “You will have to forgive me, for I have only two plates set for supper. Please, give me a few moments to prepare something for you.”

“He can have mine,” the man said.

“Oh,” Gawain was unsure how to tell them they didn't have to feed him without making it sound like he doubted their ability to provide, “Uh, please, do not inconvenience yourself at this late hour.”

“It's no trouble at all,” the Lady of the house assured him, “Bertilak, where did you find him?”

“He found me,” the man – Bertilak – told his wife, “Has to be somewhere in four days, so I figured we could keep him warm and fed until then.”

“What's your name, young man?” the Lady asked.

“Gawain,” Gawain answered, “I am Sir Gawain of Camelot.”

“Well then, Sir Gawain of Camelot,” the Lady's smile was a warm thing, “come, sit, and tell us your story while I make sure we all eat.”

Gawain did, telling them of the banquet and the promise he'd made and how he knew he was walking towards his death, but his honor meant more to him than his life.

“I know it sounds unbelievable,” he said as he finished his tale, his entire affect deflating. Why he'd told these strangers everything despite the sheer level of absurdity if one had not seen it themselves was beyond him. Lonely, perhaps, desperate for some sort of human connection.

“It is far from the strangest story I have heard,” Bertilak said without effort, “or the strangest thing I have witnessed.

Relief flooded Gawain, even if he did not understand it.

“How can I repay you for your hospitality?” Gawain asked, “I do not have coin or stores left in my bags.”

“A trade, perhaps?” Bertilak offered, “I will need to hunt each day, so when I return you can decide what to do with the hunt's bounty in exchange for sharing with me what you have gained during the day.”

It made no sense, the trade, but Gawain agreed with it.

–

All Gawain had gotten the first day was a kiss from the Lady of the house, and even that had been after much, much negotiation on Gawain's part, down from bedding her. Differences in age aside, Gawain feared spending the last days of his life being scrutinized for the truth behind the circumstances of his birth far, far more than he'd been enticed by the idea of sleeping with the both of them despite his inexperience.

When Bertilak asked what Gawain had earned for the day, Gawain showed him instead of told him and, oh, _oh!_ , Gawain was learning so, so much about himself as Bertilak took what Gawain had to offer.

This repeated the next two days, Gawain realizing how much he enjoyed kissing the both of them, how much he wished he could spend more days engaged in this trade that felt more like a game than an actual repayment for their generosity and hospitality.

The third day, the Lady had given him a girdle, saying it was magic and would protect him from harm. Despite the trade agreement, he did not share this with Bertilak. 

He tossed and turned all night, the guilt over not being honest gnawing at his desire to live edspite the odds he was up against.

He slipped away before dawn, girdle under his shirts, leaving his horse in the paddock, knowing the stream was a short distance on foot.

–

He knelt in the cold, wet ground, knees kissing the water's edge, eyes closed and head bowed until he heard the wind whisper to look up. He did and sure enough, a chapel – once white, now stained by nature and time – stood in front of him where he had expected the other bank to be. Gawain rose to his feet, took a deep breath, and entered the chapel.

“Sir Gawain,” an all-too-familiar voice greeted him, “I see you have come to honor our agreement.”

_“YOU!”_ Gawain shouted, “It was you these past three days!” He knew where he recognized the voice, now, cursing himself beyond damnation for not placing it sooner, for not recognizing the trap when it had been laid for him.

“It has,” Bertilak nodded, tone and posture still relaxed despite the oversized axe in his hand.

Gawain let out a howl of anguish and ripped his shirts off before shedding the girdle, tossing it aside like it had harmed him.

“This is because of my dishonesty, is it not?” Gawain demanded to know, “that I should have such a wonderful last few days only to find out it is some kind of twisted pity that my executioner's wife should try to lay with me day after day?”

“Gawain,” Bertilak's voice grew soft. He leaned his axe against the wall and took a step closer to Gawain, who'd began sobbing.

“I tried, I tried!” Gawain was shouting, fists curled into tight balls and tears streaming down his face, “I tried to be a perfect Knight! To do what honor and valor and chivalry demanded of me, but no, I took the coward's way out and keep the item promised to keep me from harm instead of giving it to you like the agreement demanded!”

“Oh Gawain,” Bertilak's voice held sorrow this time, and it was too much for Gawain to handle. He sank to his knees and put his hands over his face and sobbed so violently he thought he might break his ribs from the force of the things.

“Just get it over with!” Gawain demanded despite the defeat that had already began to drown him.

“I never planned to kill you,” Bertilak was kneeling on the floor across from Gawain.

“Why, then?” Gawain managed, “Why let me spend an entire fucking year thinking it would be my last? Why make me waste a year seeking closure when I could have spent the time becoming something better than I am?”

“It's complicated,” Bertilak sighed as he put his curled-up index finger on the edge of Gawain's chin.

“You think me daft?” Gawain managed to reign his sobs in and glare over lowered hands.

“I think you're panicking,” Bertilak told him as he lifted Gawain's chin so he could look him in the eyes.

“Am I supposed to be taking this _well_?” Gawain heard himself ask.

“You're taking this much better than expected,” Bertilak told him, “Can I make this up to you? Please?”

Before Gawain stopped himself, he told Bertilak of his Aunt's magic, why it had been done, of the fact he was not considered the firstborn son until after his fifteenth birthday, until after his Aunt's favor had been done and there was no going back, of how, despite his gratitude, he resented she could not fix his body entirely.

“And you ask of me the rest of it?” Bertilak asked. Gawain nodded. “This will not be your Aunt's magic.”

“You aren't my Aunt,” Gawain pointed out, still angry.

“This will hurt,” Bertilak sighed, “it will hurt in ways you have never hurt before.”

“I will suffer to become the man I was meant to be,” Gawain told Bertilak, his jaw set and eyes hard.

“Very well,” Bertilak stood, then offered Gawain a hand to stand up, “but this will bind you to me, by the nature of the magic, and the bond cannot be broken.”

“Okay,” Gawain would have agreed to anything at that point.

–

His own screams were distant things, as if happening in another world entirely. His whole body felt as if it had been set aflame from the inside out. There was not a part of him that did not feel as if it was being stripped away from him with a meat hook.

If he was still on the floor where he'd been instructed to lie, he could not feel it, or anything, really, anything besides the searing pain.

This was, as Gawain had been woefully unprepared for, how divine magic differed from mortal magic. It was a raw, fast-acting but terrible thing that spared both user and recipient none of its cost.

When the pain finally subsided, Gawain found himself naked and curled around himself on his side on the chapel floor. Someone was kneeling beside him, muttering, washing his forehead with a cool, wet cloth.

“What-?” Gawain managed a single syllable, a single sound he hoped was a word.

“I heard your screaming,” the Lady told him, “How are you feeling?”

“Pain,” Gawain told her. His throat felt raw, as if, should he cough, he would cough blood.

“Hmn,” she hummed, “Good to see you're awake.”

Gawain made another sound, another attempt at a question.

“You were unconscious for near half the day,” she told him, “You are healing well – there's some magic of your own yet you have not unlocked – but you are going to need to lie low for a few days to heal properly.”

Gawain tried to nod.

“May I carry you back to the house?” she asked him. He tried to nod again and it must have worked, because she scooped him up as if he weighed nothing. “Come, love,” she called over her shoulder. She stood still for a few moments before Bertilak, too, was there, using her shoulder for support as he staggered back to the house with them. Gawain tried a few times to ask him what happened, if he was alright, but could not get his mind of throat to work the way he wanted it to.

–

Gawain awoke again, the light coming through the windows telling him it was well into the day after, well, whatever happened at the chapel had happened. It was his bladder that awoke him, really, and he cursed the organ until he was sure any more cursing would result in some sort of internal malady.

It wasn't until he stood up and looked down that he realized whatever Bertilak had done the day before had, in fact, given him exactly what he hoped for. The resulting noise was somewhere between an overly excited whoop and a scream, dried blood all over his legs and stomach. He ran outside to relieve himself, fearing he may wet the floor in shock.

He hurried back inside, the winter's chill biting. Bertilak and his wife were waiting for him, a mix of concern and confusion on their faces.

“Hi,” Gawain managed.

“You're up, good,” the Lady's smile returned.

“How are you feeling?” Bertilak asked.

“Shocked,” Gawain answered honestly, “Cold, hungry, in pain, still angry.”

“As you have every right to be,” Bertilak did not meet Gawain's eyes.

“Thank you,” Gawain said, the honesty in his voice a raw, unfiltered thing, “Really, thank you.”

“Of course,” Bertilak assured him, “I did ask how I could make it up to you.”

Gawain let out a small laugh.

“Come, dear,” the Lady beckoned for Gawain, “Let's get you cleaned off and fed.”

Gawain followed, finally proud of his body, not wanting to hide it out of fear of what other people might say.

–

Gawain stayed a week longer than his recovery mandated, wanting to learn about the Lord and Lady as much as his own appetites. He knew, though, that he should not delay his return, the news of his survival, any longer. He wore the girdle on the outside of his shirts this time, a symbol of his bond. His shield, too, had Bertilak's heraldry rather than his own. His horse, at least, still recognized him.

“When will I see you again?” Gawain asked as they pinned him between themselves, a farewell embrace Gawain let settle into every part of him.

“When we are meant to cross,” Bertilak's answer was not helpful.

“Be well,” the Lady told him.

“Be well,” Gawain echoed the sentiment as he set off.

–

Gawain's return was met with much more fanfare than his initial arrival at Camelot.

“You live!” Arthur swept Gawain off his horse and into a hug as he rode through the courtyard. The King – his Uncle – had been running, “Oh, Nephew, you live!”

Gawain wondered, in the back of his mind, how his Uncle had managed that without harming either of the.

“I do,” Gawain managed, “I live.”

“Come,” Arthur put Gawain on the ground, “come and tell us everything while we ready a feast.”

Gawain had missed Cei's frustrated noises of protest in the month he'd bee away.

Camelot, he knew, would always be Home regardless of where life took him.

–

Gawain gave an abbreviated version of events, skipping the week extra he'd spent and the reason he'd needed to spend the additional time. When he reached back to scratch the back of his neck he realized there was a long scab in the middle stages of healing he had somehow overlooked. It felt like an axe nick, and he supposed Bertilak had left it there so others could assume Gawain had, indeed, taken some sort of return blow.

“And so I am bound to him,” Gawain finished his story, “as he is bound to me.”

“Whoa,” Owain, one of the older Pages who was, somehow, also related to Arthur said, “That is so cool.”

“And a much, much happier ending than expected,” Arthur added, “I am thankful that whatever forces are at play have brought you back to us. Back to Camelot.” Arthur's eyes were shining.

“As am I,” Gawain answered truthfully.

–

“Brother,” Gawain caught up with Agrivane after everyone had dispersed, “Agrivane, are you alright?”

“Am I alright?” Agrivane echoed, mocking, “Twice now you have come out of the shadows and stolen my birthright and you ask me if I am _alright_??”

“I-” Gawain took half a step back, shocked by Agrivane's aggression and words alike, “I cannot help how I was born.”

“But you sure went through every possible avenue to cheat the hand you were dealt, didn't you?” Agrivane snarled, “Did everything in your power to become the golden boy, the Knight with all the gifts, the would-be King with everyone adoring him.”

Gawain took a full step back, Agrivane's accusations too much for him to handle. He would never, never try to harm his brother, any of his family, and here the only immediate family he had at court was a few steps away from cursing his survival.

“Agrivane,” Gawain pleaded, though for what he was not sure.

“Keep your center stage life,” Agrivane spat, “Keep your adoring fans. I'll become someone without you or the rest of the family's willingness to follow your whims.” Agrivane stalked off before Gawain could say anything else.

“What was that about,” Cei stuck his head out of the nearest door. Gawain startled and surprised the both of them when he burst into tears. “Uh, hang on a moment,” Cei said to him, “Bedi! Help!”

Gawain heard Bedivere's long-suffering sigh before he saw the other man.

“Oh, dear,” Bedivere's entire affect shifted into a softer, more concerned one as soon as he saw Gawain, “Come in.” Gawain did.

They had a fire going, and Gawain sat in front of it. Bedivere covered his back with a blanket and Cei handed him a glass of strong-smelling wine.

“Cei!” Bedivere hissed.

“What?” Cei asked, “He's a grown-ass man and can handle whatever's bothering him the way grown-ass men do.”

Gawain took the glass but thought on how often he'd seen Cei drinking in a new light.

“There are other options,” Bedivere said to Gawain more then Cei, “to deal with whatever it is that's settled into your soul that does not belong there.”

Gawain, unable to bring himself to tell them _everything_ , realizing he had no idea how much he could truly trust either of them, nonetheless the both of them together, sat in silence for a while, sipping on the wine despite its burn.

“What magics did you find there?” Cei broke the silence after a while. He was sitting at his desk, three candles' worth of light letting him chip away at the piles of paperwork he probably needed to have done a week ago or more.

“How did you know?” Gawain asked before he could stop himself. He turned around so quickly he nearly spilled his wine, but Bedivere was _right there_ , steadying the glass.

Cei glanced up, specifically at Bedivere, who shrugged.

“I have my own magics,” Cei said with a heavy sigh, “and as such can feel when someone else has their own active magics, or has recently been in contact with the magics of another.”

Gawain blinked a few times before turning around slowly, making sure the wine did not spill and the blanket did not find its way into or even near the fire before he asked: “Why does the rest of the court not know?” 

Cei tilted his head and Bedivere started talking. “Magics are a tricky thing,” he said, “Half the people see them as dangerous, half see them as an unfair advantage, and everyone without magics wants those with magics to constantly be doing something for them.”

“Is that why you keep people at a distance?” Gawain hadn't considered how rude the question was before he asked it.

“Oh, no,” Cei didn't look up from his paperwork, “that's just who I am as a person.”

“Cei!” Bedivere had clearly meant it as a warning of a reprimand, but the laughter that accompanied it took the effect away entirely.

Gawain managed to not tell them of the magics he'd encountered, the whole thing still so deeply personal he wanted to keep it to himself, but at least now whenever the magics the Lady had spoken about came to the surface, he knew who he could go to.


	3. Carting My Failures Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The late spring's warm, soft air was marred by the news of the Queen's capture, which, incidentally, also involved the capture of Sir Cei as part of the collateral damage. Enter: Lancelot.

The late spring's warm, soft air was marred by the news of the Queen's capture, which, incidentally, also involved the capture of Sir Cei as part of the collateral damage.

Gawain's ninth summer at Camelot would be an exciting one, if nothing else. His third brother, Mordred, had only recently come to court and was somehow even more contrary and stubborn than Agrivane. Still, Gawain could try to figure out what happened to the bright-eyes little brother who'd turned so angry once the issue of the missing Queen-Aunt and, uh, Cei had been settled.

Bedivere had been in a rage since Cei had been missing, quick to blame those who'd been in the Queen's guard with Cei for not being fast enough, not being fearless enough, not being _enough._ Artur had banned Bedivere from leaving the castle grounds out of fear he would storm the castle they were being held hostage at by himself. And, while no one doubted Bedivere's ability to do just that, Arthur wanted to avoid a war.

The problem was, Arthur also wanted to avoid seeming weak by giving in to the hostage demands. He reasoned that if he gave in this time, what was to stop other Lords who wished to seek Kingship for themselves from also attempting to kidnap the Queen, or from kidnapping Knight Arthur kept in his utmost confidence and prying Camelot's secrets from them _through any means necessary._

Enter: Lancelot.

A man of no renown, no namesake within the entire island, his lands across the sea so different from Camelot's spirit that he was easy to see as out of place. And yet, he had shown up barely days after the kidnapping, declaring at the castle gates he wished to enter King Arthur's service. He was nearly laughed off the castle grounds, but Arthur decided he would take all the help he could get, given the circumstances. 

A scouting mission, Arthur decided, would determine how possible a rescue-recapture campaign would be. He selected Gawain and Lancelot, no fewer, no more, and told them to be ready by morning.

He pulled Gawain aside after the decision was made without input from the rest of the Round Table and told him: “This is a mission I know you will be able to do by yourself if the new guy proves himself to be completely useless.”

“Uh,” Gawain couldn't decide how he felt about that, “Thanks?”

“We need to find a way to bring them back.” Arthur gripped Gawain's shoulder, “Please.” There was a desperation, a crack in Arthur's facade that unnerved Gawain in ways he couldn't pin down. Still, he nodded, unwilling to verbalize any promises should they – should he – fail.

–

They were being held, Arthur told Gawain and Lancelot as their horses were being readied, at a small castle about three day's ride from Camelot.. The directions were specific until they stopped, then became a vague _look for a castle._

They wore light clothes, far more fit for riding and sneaking than fighting. Still, they each carried a sword and bow attached to their saddles.

“Your Queen and your Cei will be found,” Lancelot promised the King as he bowed, a deep, near-submissive thing.

Lancelot was **young** , Gawain realized, he beard not much more that stray hairs dotting his face, his _face_ unmarred by any signs of conflict. And yet, he was built like a Knight who had years upon years of practice, like he was put on this Earth for the sole purpose of being a Knight. Gawain wasn't sure what to make of him, but he knew better than to start projecting any negative thoughts while there was any sort of Quest involved.

“We will ride as swiftly as we can,” Gawain _could_ promise that to his Uncle, his King.

“Thank you,” their King said, “both of you.”

And with that, they were off.

–

Lancelot proved to be an excellent horseman, his ability to stay in the saddle and both he and Gawain pushed their horses as fast as they could go for as long as they could an impressive feat in and of itself.

It was Gawain's horse who flagged first, slowing and slowing until the beast came to a stop and then dropped to the ground.

“Oh no no no no no no no,” Gawain said over and over, “C'mon, Gringolet, up you go buddy.” His horse did not budge. It was still breathing, but exhausted. Up ahead, Lancelot slowed his horse and brought it back around to see what had happened.

“Are you alright?” Lancelot asked.

“My fucking horse just quit,” Gawain was on his knees as if he could coax the animal to its feet better that way.

“We have ridden hard,” Lancelot agreed, “and it is well past midday. We can break for food and see if your animal rises again.”

Gawain hesitated, knowing that if Lancelot went on without him – and if his horse didn't quit for a break like Gringolet – he may well find the castle ahead of schedule. Which would mean Gawain would be the, to use his Uncle's words, completely useless one.

“Sounds like a plan,” Gawain couldn't stand the thought of being useless, “though he's laying on my food sack.”

“You can have some of mine,” Lancelot offered, “There is food enough in here for both of us, especially if we take fewer breaks than we seem to be expected to.”

_Does this guy's **niceness** ever end??_ Gawain thought to himself, but what he said was: “You are Kind, Sir.”

Lancelot flushed at Gawain's words, a pinkish heat rising in his cheeks and creeping down his neck. Gawain wondered if he ever got thanks in his life. Judging by his reaction, probably not.

Perhaps, Gawain hoped, he could use his this to keep Lancelot from outshining him at every turn. It was a horrid thought, Gawain knew, but he could not shake it from his head.

Lancelot dismounted and immediately got a hunk of cheese and an even larger hunk of bread from one saddle bag, then two small dried sausages out of another. He ripped the bread in half, handed one of the sausages and part of the bead to Gawain, then ripped the cheese in half before handing half to Gawain, who noticed Lancelot had kept the smaller portions for himself.

Gawain would not have done that.

–

Some time while Gawain was finishing the last bites of bread – the last few bites of a meal always seemed to take many times longer than the first bites – his horse decided he'd had enough rest and pulled himself to his feet.

“GRINGOLET!” Gawain exclaimed, “Oh Gringolet.” He was on his feet and hugging his horse's neck, still holding the last bits of bread, “You had me worried, buddy.”

The horse made a sound that seemed to be an objection and shook his head.

“The horses will need water,” Lancelot said, “and so will we.”

“He can find us a stream,” Gawain indicated his horse. Lancelot shrugged.

“We can finish eating while he leads us to water,” Lancelot decided and mounted his horse. Gawain had to take a running leap to get on Gringolet's saddle.

“Go on,” Gawain patted the beast's haunches, telling it to go. And it went – almost painfully slowly – taking bits of grass and other plants as he walked, clearly so hungry as well as undoubtedly thirsty. Lancelot's horse, at least, was doing the same thing, walking and eating.

They eventually made it to a stream, all four of them submerging their faces and taking in as much water as they could without choking. Somehow, Gawain wound up furthest downstream, his water tasting just a touch like horse and grass.

Gawain coughed as he brought his head up.

“Are you alright?” Lancelot asked.

“Yeah,” Gawain cleared his throat, “Just, you know, horse slobber.”

“Come, drink upstream from them,” Lancelot waived Gawain closer to his drinking spot. Gawain did, thankful the other man seemed so keen on making sure Gawain was cared for.

–

“There it is,” Lancelot pointed at the horizon. Gawain squinted, unable to discern what on Earth the other man was indicating. “See the thin gray line,” Lancelot pointed again, “between the Oak missing half its leaves and the Oak that seems to have budded late?”

Gawain squinted and could _kind of maybe_ make it out.

“Let's go,” Lancelot urged his animal forward, and Gawain trusted his eyesight without reason or critical examination.

–

There was, sure enough, a castle exactly where Lancelot had indicated. Gawain wondered if he'd been a tracker at some point in his probably short life.

“We should leave the horses here,” Lancelot halted his beast as he spoke, “they will make too much noise.”

And, really, Gawain hadn't considered that. He was, though, considering his Uncle's faith in his scouting abilities may have been gravely misplaced.

They tied their horses to a tree and began their surveillance mission.

–

The castle was more wood than stone, and not well-defended by the surrounding land. It was a squat thing, perhaps two stories, three if the ceilings were almost dangerously low. Whoever had commissioned the structure had wanted flat land surrounding it, presumably with some sort of gardens in mind. However, the gardens had never materialized, so there was, well, just a long stretch of flat land guarded by a foot patrol that, after crouching behind some bushes for hours, Gawain could tell followed a predictable pattern.

He'd sent Lancelot to do some more scouting on foot, hoping the fact the man had bested him at every turn would continue to hold true when it came to, well, the really critical bits. He'd given Lancelot a physical description of both Guinevere and Kai in the event he was able to catch a glimpse of them.

“Your Cei,” Lancelot managed to sneak up on Gawain, “You said impossibly tall, flame-red hair?”

“Yes,” Gawain tried to hide exactly how startled he was, “Why?”

“They're being held on the exact other side of the castle,” Lancelot told him, “Ground floor, window with iron bars over it. Cei's in bad shape.”

“I've established the guard's patterns from here,” Gawain said, “but I do not know if they'll hold the same from the _exact opposite side_.”

“We can take the horses around from as far away as possible,” Lancelot suggested, “and rescue them at night.”

At night lately – though Gawain could not figure out why – he had not been feeling himself, his actions and thoughts slower and his ability to do anything that required physical strength diminished until he'd slept and the sun's first rays woke him. A night rescue would expose this weakness.

“How bad is Cei looking?” Gawain asked, hoping the answer would equate to _not bad enough that we can't send word to Arthur they are rescueable._

Lancelot sighed with a grimace. “Bad,” he said, “Incredibly bad. Might-not-survive-more-than-a-few-days-bad.”

“Shit,” Gawain hissed. Lancelot made a noise of agreement.

They went to go lead the horses to a better location for a rescue.

–

Eventually, they decided that the best way to handle this was to tie the window bars to the horses and have the horses take off. This would, hopefully, rip the window out and make a large enough hole for Guinevere and Cei to crawl through. The ropes would be quick release knots so they could just leave everything behind. They then could each take one of the others on their horses and be out of there fast enough to be home free before the guards circled back around.

Whether or not anyone would be close enough to hear the racket was another story.

Gawain went to the window to try to wake them and tell them of the plan only to find them both awake, a single torchlight in the hall giving him enough light to tell.

“Gawain!” the Queen said a little too loudly, “Gawain, please, you have to get us out of here!”

“That's what we're trying to do,” Gawain told her.

“We?” she asked.

“His name is Lancelot,” Gawain told her, “Long story, better told later. Are you hurt?”

“Me, no,” she shook her head, “Cei's...not well.”

Gawain peered into the cell to find Cei huddled in a corned, shivering and covered in sweat.

“What's wrong with him?” Gawain asked.

“Iron cell,” Lancelot snuck up on Gawain _again_ , “He has fair folks' magic?”

“Apparently,” Guinevere frowned, “It's awful. They found out about his magics on the way back when he tried to burn the caravan down and locked his wrists in iron manacles, then threw us both in here in case I had them, too. He's been getting worse by the day.”

Gawain felt sick for even thinking that they should wait.

Lancelot wound up telling Guinevere of their plan. Guinevere cautioned that the iron bars may run from floor to ceiling to maintain a cage effect.

“Is there anything we could use as a battering ram?” Lancelot asked, “We would have to bring the horses closer but we could tie the ropes to it and hope we hit a weak spot.”

“It's better than nothing,” Guinevere told him, “We can use the cot.”

They fed the ropes to Guinevere, who tied them around the room's single cot before handing them back to Lancelot and Gawain, who tied them to their saddles.

“Ready?” Gawain whispered as soon as he was in the saddle.

“Go!” Lancelot said as a slightly closer to normal volume.

They both kicked their horses hard, the beasts actually startling and taking off. The cot made a terrible noise as it hit the wall, metal on wood. The cot broke into a dozen pieces and sent splinters flying. Both horses stopped suddenly at the force. The saddle hit Gawain in the stomach as he was flung forward. He used the saddle to keep himself from the ground, knowing he'd have horrendous bruising in the morning.

Gawain chanced a glance behind him...

...to see there was, indeed, a small hole in the wall where the window used to be.

Cei seemed to dart out of the hole like a terrified prey animal, looked delirious, eyes wild and posture all types of wrong. Guinevere was out of the cell almost immediately after Cei, much more composed despite the haunted, exhausted look in her eyes.

“Take the Queen,” Cei roared, something inhuman tearing at the edges, “I will catch up!”

Gawain didn't need to be told twice. He undid the ropes on his saddle and and started getting his horse ready to run.

Lancelot's animal turned where it stood and circled back for the Queen. Lancelot managed to help her onto the front of his saddle and trotted to where Gawain was.

“Will he be alright?” Lancelot seemed hesitant to leave Kai behind.

Gawain looked back at Cei, who was quite literally on fire, his tattoos glowing white-hot and pulsating, his manic laughter louder than the crackling of the flames. _So this is his magics,_ Gawain realized. The air felt different, charged, like whatever Cei was doing was changing the very air they breathed. It was a beautiful but highly upsetting sight, only the lack of smell of burning flesh and hair setting Gawain's mind at _a hair below total panic_. Whatever Cei was capable of was likely not to remain a secret much longer.

Gawain knew that Cei would be some iteration of fine. Gawain also knew the castle would not be standing in the morning.

“He'll be fine,” Gawain decided against the word _alright_ to describe how Cei would be, “but if we stay he may burn us along with everything else.”

Lancelot gave a long-suffering sigh before he told his horse to go, one arm around the Queen's waist to keep her secure. Gawain was thankful to have nothing against his stomach, the blooming pain tender even from his tunic brushing against it.

The Queen looked safe in Lancelot's arms, he thought as their horses took them away far and fast.

–

Sure enough, the next morning Cei was at their camp, passed out on the bare ground, naked with soot marks all over him, but alive and otherwise not looking as if he'd set his whole body alight.

“Holy shit,” Lancelot woke everyone else up, “Uhm, hello?” He was staring at Cei with a mixture of fear and awe.

“G'mornin'” Cei grumbled and stretched, “See ya got well away from that shithole.”

“Cei,” Gawain was staring for entirely different reasons, “Cei, are you alright.”

“Much better,” Cei said as he sat up, “That was hell.”

“Oh Cei,” Guinevere was the only one acting like this was a normal morning, “I am so thankful to see you as yourself again.”

“'M Thankful t' be back t' m'self,” Cei said, “I cannot wait t' be back to Camelot.”

“Me, too,” Guinevere agreed.

–

Breakfast was _whatever they had in their saddle bags_ , figuring the next town couldn't be that far away and they could also get Cei something resembling clothes so he could travel without scaring people.

When Cei stood up, his legs buckled under him. With a pained shout, he was falling, and Lancelot and Guinevere were _right there_ , supporting Cei, keeping him from crashing to the ground. While Gawain stood there, struck dumb by the suddenness of everything.

“You seem well-versed in the after-effects of magics' exertion, My Queen,” Lancelot said as they eased Cei to the ground.

“He is my brother by marriage,” Guinevere said with a small laugh, “I would certainly hope I know him.”

“Ah, but you do not have any magics yourself, do you?” Lancelot asked. When she shook her head no, he continued: “You are a wise woman, then, for being able to react so quickly.”

“We support each other,” Guinevere said as if that explained everything.

Gawain knew she meant it as a general statement, but he felt it was directed at him, at how he'd at least one move behind since he and Lancelot had set out from Camelot.

–

They opted to let Cei ride on one horse while he regained his ability to support himself and take turns riding on the other one to avoid wearing the horses out, very unlike the ride to the now-burned-down castle. Guinevere would hear nothing of being the only one to take the other horse just because she was Queen. She believed in her husband's view on equity, and as such they'd _take turns_ when they could.

Cei rode flopped forward, looking more and more like he was wilting as they rode.

“Let it be said,” Cei said around midday, “no one should ride naked.”

Gawain and Lancelot winced in sympathy. Guinevere tried very hard not to think about the statement.

When they finally reached a village, their first order of business was getting Cei into a room at the inn without making it into a spectacle. Guinevere and Lancelot, both taller than Gawain, wound up dragging Cei into a room while Gawain bought one room, figuring they could figure later if they needed more than one room.

Cei was cursing everything and almost every one he could think of by the time they got him into the room and onto the bed.

“You could have killed yourself,” Guinevere was lecturing Cei when Gawain joined them, “What were you thinking, draining yourself like that?”

“That they caged me,” Cei growled through gritted teeth, “That they trapped me in **iron** like a fuckin' monster, left me t' rot from the inside out while my magics burned me 'cause they didn't have no where to go.”

And, really, how could _anyone_ argue with that. Gawain wasn't sure exactly how iron worked in relation to magics like Cei's, but it felt like a terrible time to ask. Cei, despite how weak he was and how clearly he'd nearly burned through himself on top of whatever damage int iron cage had done, was still full of stubborn fury, eyes wild and nostrils flared, jaw set as if he was still gritting his teeth together.

–

They ended up letting Cei rest for three days – the same amount of time Gawain had needed to recover – and settling for buying a single, large, thin bedsheet and turning it into a makeshift covering for Cei. Cei had managed to convince the local blacksmith to trade them two horses for coals that would not go cold, even when dunked in water, so they could all ride back on their own horses.

Magics, Gawain decided, were absolutely terrifying and impossible things that defied everything he knew about the world. That there could be a world unseen, lurking just below the surface of the one he called his that could be called forward, coaxed into sharing the world he inhabited, unsettled him in more ways than he had names for.

–

“Tell me,” Arthur pulled Gawain into his private quarters with no preamble two days after their return, once the celebrations had died down and he felt assured both his wife and his foster-brother were indeed safe and going to be alright – Cei had some lingering after-effects of whatever he went through that saw him collapse in the kitchens once , “how Lancelot was on the whole operation.”

Gawain debated, for just a small fraction of a moment, giving as few details as possible. Again, he was disgusted by the thought, but still, it was there, reminding him how badly he wanted the glory for himself.

He sighed and told his King, his Uncle, his _family_ everything, down to the last detail.

–

Arthur invited Lancelot to a meeting of the Round Table the following morning. There were hushed murmurs of surprise that died down when Arthur gestured for Lancelot to take a seat next to him. It was a shocked silence, but still silence.

“Sir Gawain tells me you were invaluable,” Arthur addressed Lancelot but was loud enough it was clear he wanted everyone to hear him, “and that the entire rescue would have been impossible without your wit, grace, valor, and willingness to take chances that could have easily turned into sacrifices.”

“Thank you,” Lancelot was flushed again, “I did what was Right, and Sir Gawain was also invaluable, also worthy of the same praises.”

Gawain knew that appraisal to be far too kind, but said nothing.

“Lancelot is worth twenty men,” Gawain was not exaggerating. A ripple of confused approval went around the table before Cei cleared his throat.

“Lancelot can be trusted,” Cei said simply. The confused ripple got louder. No one had ever heard Cei give _anyone_ praise, nonetheless praise of confidence. Gawain shrank away from the fact that such high praise could have been his, if only he was better at, well, better at existing.

–

Lancelot was Knighted and made the King's Champion in short order, Arthur declaring that someone whose traveling companions spoke so highly of him, someone who was able to rescue the Queen and earn Cei's trust – privately, and only to those who knew of Cei's magics, he would say that Lancelot recognizing the iron cage and its effects so quickly did indeed play a part in his selections – someone who was willing to give selflessly to a higher cause was someone who had the heart and soul of a Champion.

Despite his external happiness, Gawain feared he would find himself living in Lancelot's shadow.


	4. A Grail Laid to Waste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newest Knight, despite the promise and prophecy he arrived with, fails to achieve the until-then mystical Grail. Fortified with generous amounts of wine, Gawain thinks he can succeed where this Percival has failed. Sober Gawain disagrees with Drunk Gawain.

The barely-older-enough-to-be-a-man had surprised Camelot with his honesty, his earnest desire to be something more than one life, to serve Camelot heart and soul and, really, Gawain was beginning to notice a pattern here.

Percival, he'd told everyone his name was, was found in the forest with his mother and younger sister, their mother's long-dead husband a Knight who fell in battle or on a quest or something where the exact details were obscured. The woman wanted so badly to save her only son from his father's fate that she was willing to put all of their lives at risk for years upon years to keep him from seeing a Knight, from deciding to follow the call of his bloodline rather than the safety she could offer him away from war, as if war picked and chose who it came for.

Percival was barely as old as Gawain had been when he'd first came to his Uncle's court, perhaps a touch younger, even, it was difficult to tell with how the wilderness had shaped him, body and soul. And yet, there was a naivety to him that made him seem ever younger. Whether it was lack of experience of a part of the young man, Gawain could not tell.

It had not helped that his arrival was marked by a prophecy spat out by a serving girl who, really, had no business being possessed by spirits who knew God's will, but, hey, God worked in strange ways or something to that affect, eh?

Percival, and what an odd name, so close to Godly and yet so far away at the same time, had not quite fit in. Still, he was study, strong, and an excellent fighter, so Arthur welcomed him into the fold as a Knight. It was also discovered, and Gawain was never able to parse out how, that Percival knew when and how to keep his mouth shut. And so Percival found himself a member of the Round Table before his face had figured how to grow a beard. He didn't share Gawain's secrets – Gawain had seem him and every other Knight (save Cei, Bedivere, and Lancelot) naked, and more than once in most cases, the desire to get into clothes that did not itch from battle-sweat of sparring-grime superseding any usual social conventions regarding dignity – so Gawain figured he may well have been younger than sixteen, the years had simply not been tracked well in the wilderness. Perhaps he had been Gaheris' age, and oh, did that hurt a little to think about, sweet Gaheris being shaped by the wilderness.

Still, he was not feral, but also not domesticated, a young man caught between worlds, between ideologies, and Gawain almost held some sympathy for him. At least, Gawain almost held some sympathy for him until the newest Knight declared he was going to go fulfill the prophecy that had been spat up about him. After that, Gawain just resented his youth-fueled idealism that allowed him to believe he could matter as an individual.

–

When Percival returned after having failed despite seeing the Grail, despite having the Grail practically touch his nose, Gawain felt some sort of vindication. This one, too, was no better than anyone who had not had some sort of spirit, Godly or not, possess someone over articulating their destiny.

And if Gawain took some joy in how everyone took every turn to mention how someone had _seen the Grail_ \- a task long deemed impossible – and yet still sat among them like it had never happened, well, he supposed that was a part of what made him human. Just as Percival was human.

–

It was a Feast – another fucking Feast – whose cause Gawain either missed or not bothered to remember and all Gawain wanted to do was bury himself in his cups and look for an excuse to leave early. He found the more the years dragged on, the less he cared for theses Feast, these events to show off Camelot's rich bounties. 

Camelot persisted regardless of what it was up against, Gawain had come to realize, because it could _afford to_ persist, warriors well-fed, walls and moat well-kept, local batshit insane and likely ageless wizard too powerful to be taken out at the supernatural helm.

Maybe he'd had too much to drink, if there was such a thing. He was about to get up when someone refilled his cup, making his decision for him. He kept drinking. Somewhere around a decade and a half ago, Cei had said it was how _grown-ass men_ dealt with their problems, so maybe he was well on his way to becoming a grown-ass man.

He caught a snippet of someone, somewhere in earshot – however far an earshot was, anyways – mention that fucking Grail again.

“I could find it,” Gawain didn't hear as much as he felt himself say.

“You could what?” a voice he didn't recognize from the nearest lower table said.

“The Grail,” Gawain had no idea how sharp or slurred his words were, “I could find the Grail. It's in that. That castle in the Wasted Lands, yeah?”

“It's not that simple,” Percival, sweet, young, perhaps a bit daft Percival spoke up despite his own well-damaged pride.

“It's a cup,” Gawain turned towards the lad, “I can handle a cup.”

“No, it's really not that-” Percival's all-too-quiet attempt as an explanation was cut off by someone else decided they could find _a cup_.

“Cei,” Arthur hissed, “Lance, one of you closer to him, _stop him._ ”

Gawain refused to be stopped, so hopped up on top of the high table, wine cup held aloft as it sloshed over the sides, splashing him in the face, in the eyes, on his Feast tunic.

“To the Grail!” Gawain bellowed, “May the best man find it!”

A cheer rose across the Feast Hall. A few chairs down, his Uncle covered his face in shame.

–

“Gawain,” Cei threw a bucket of water over the sleeping Knight, “time to get up.”

“What the fuck!?” Gawain sputtered more than shouted, “What was that about? I'm all wet and so is my bed!”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Cei's voice was missing its normal, informal cadence, “Up. Yet set t' help clean the mess in the Feast Hall.”

“Me?” Gawain asked, indignant, “Why **me**??”

“'Cause yer the one who started that fuckin' riot,” Cei handed him the now-empty bucket, “Hundred an' half that again Knights wanna go find a fuckin' cup 'cause ye didn't know better than t'' jump on the fuckin' table and declare ya could find the damned thing.”

Well, at least his cadence was back, even if this was the first time Cei had been angry at him directly.

 _Did I do that, though? Did I really declare I'd find the Holy Grail in front of the entire Feast Hall?_ Gawain wondered to himself as he tried to haul his hungover self out of bed.

“Ya did,” Cei told him, “An' ya got a hunned an' fifty Knights to follow yer idea. Ya've left us weak 'cause ya cannot keep yer trap shut.”

“Was I talking out loud?” Gawain's words slurred together just a touch.

“Feast Hall,” Cei snapped, “If ya cannot get there before I can, ya'll find out what regret really feels like.”

Cei left in a right huff. Gawain wondered how he was awake and functioning when he knew for a fact Cei had taken many, many more cups of the same wine Gawain had. He did not, however, wonder what _real regret_ felt like. 

He got dressed as quickly as he could, still barely beating Cei to the Feast Hall with a handful of other Knights who looked just as sorry as Gawain felt.

“Get t' work,” Cei barked, leaving no room to argue or balk or try to renegotiate their fates, “If it isn't done 'fore I get back, yer training with the squires fer a month.”

If nothing else, Cei knew how to motivate people.

Gawain tried to focus on the cleaning tasks at hand and not the increasingly heave realization he could not _achieve the Grail_ , whatever than involved.


	5. Sins of Our Families

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred discloses the truth of his parentage to his brothers. They all go home to see if they can set some things straight.
> 
> If only plans and realities lined up so simply.

In the twenty years since he'd come to Camelot, Gawain never expected to feel so downright horrible about having all of his brothers with him. Gareth, who he'd never met in-person before, was the last to arrive. The little bastard had initially disguised himself as someone looking for work and had found him self serving the kitchens under Cei's watchful eye.

Cei, always more observant and with all-around keener senses than most gave him credit for, asked Gawain if he had a fourth brother who'd've been about seventeen summers old. When Gawain said yes, Cei had simply nodded and headed back the way he came. Gawain followed and sure enough, there was a kitchen boy who looked so much like the rest of his brothers that there was no way he could have been anyone else.

That had been three summers past, and now Gareth was a Knight like the rest of them, having served as Lancelot's squire – Lancelot! of all people – to see what the youngest of the Orkney brothers was made of briefly before being Knighted.

Still, Agrivane and Mordred seemed to spend all their time together, almost going out of their way to keep Gawain out of their lives more and more as of late. Gaheris and Gareth, so much younger than him they may have been a different generation entirely, he hadn't been able to form a familiar bond with, only that which Knights who periodically sparred together formed.

He'd tried, too, forming any sort of bond with his Uncle, and while Arthur still considered him his favorite Nephew so clearly, even Arthur had become more sullen and withdrawn over time, a type of paranoia Gawain did not understand and could not get his Uncle to speak of in the slightest coloring all of Arthur's actions and decisions.

So Gawain was alone. Again.

–

“Gawain,” Mordred practically ran up to him one afternoon, “Gawain, follow me,” Mordred said as he sprinted off again, the sheer speed surprising Gawain as he took off after his brother. Whatever was going on, if Mordred – is his _brother_ – wanted him for something, he wasn't going to miss it.

He followed Mordred, able to keep pace but just barely, until Mordred came to a sudden halt outside of Agrivane's rooms. Gawain nearly ran into Mordred before he was able to stop.

“In,” Mordred flung the door open. Gawain was able to slide in behind Mordred before the door closed itself, the weight of the thing meant to keep it closed unless someone intended it to be open.

Gawain was greeted by the rest of his brothers sitting in a partial circle on the floor, looking up at him, and he felt an acute sense of loss.

“Do you know how hard you are to find?” Gareth asked, “I know all of the passages – All of them! – and still could not find you!”

And man, it had been a while since he'd heard that one.

“I wasn't trying to hide,” Gawain tried a little bit not to go on the defensive, “Is everything alright?”

“Well, no,” Mordred said, “but first, please, sit.”

Gawain sighed and did as he was told for once.

–

Gawain felt frozen where he sat as he let the weight of Mordred's claim – and subsequent proof – that not only was Arthur Mordred's father but he had ordered all babies born around the time Mordred would have been born drowned at sea to hide his shame settle into his bones, then settle deeper, the settling driving out all warmth from his body.

“Why did you not tell me sooner?” was all Gawain could ask.

“You are so close to him,” Mordred said simply, “I was not sure how you would take the news.”

“You four first,” Gawain wasn't going to cry, he wasn't! “Always you four first!”

Agrivane and Mordred exchanged a look that suggested they'd had this conversation several times already.

“We can go ask mom why she's keep it secret despite dad being dead,” Gaheris said as if it still didn't sting a little, “It's lot like Arthur wasn't born out of wedlock.”

“How did you know?” Agrivane asked.

“You mean you _didn't_ comb the archives when you got here?” Gaheris was staring at Agrivane, who shrugged.

“It's a good idea,” Gawain agreed, “see if we can't sort some things out.”

Once they were in agreement regarding the official reason they would all five be traveling together with no warning or prior mentioning, they began to pack for the long, cold journey north.

The journey to a home Gawain really hadn't called Home since he'd left.

–

They rode in through the castle gates without seeing a single soul.

“This is creepy,” Gaheris noted, “I knew mom was scaling back on staff, but this is just...empty.”

“It's still well-kept,” Mordred was looking around, “Stones are all in place and there's no ivy or anything overgrowing.”

“Mom's either going to be in her study, in her private rooms, or in the throne room,” Gareth said, “After da died she fell into a predictable routine.”

“We can start in the throne room,” Gawain suggested, “it'll be the closest if we just ground tie the horses here and head in.”

“Works for me,” Agrivane was doing a damned fine job pretending like he'd never resented Gawain in front of the youngest two. Gawain ignored whatever was likely lurking under the surface of Agrivane's kindness and dismounted.

–

With no luck in either the throne room or the study, the five-pack of brothers headed up to the Queen's – their mother's – personal rooms.

No one was prepared to open the door to find someone atop her on the other side of the room.

“OH!” she cried out, catching a glimpse of the visitors, “NO!”

Gawain presumed the no was in regards to being intruded upon, but Gaheris heard the _no_ and flew into a white-hot rage, sword drawn and already lunging at their mother's attacker.

The man, who had not turned around, rolled off to try to see who he was fighting, but his timing was poor and Gaheris' rage had blinded him, so when he ran his sword through their mother instead he hadn't even known he'd done the deed.

“Oh,” Gawain covered his mouth with his hand, “Oh, no.” Beside him, he heard Agrivane retch, whatever was still in his stomach splattering against the stone floor. Gareth screamed, a raw, primal thing.

The man – no, the knight, Lamorak, Gawain recognized him – took one look at Morgause's dead body and then one look at the nearest window and decided it was safer to jump for it.

Even from across the room, Gawain could hear the sound he made when he hit the ground, having clearly under-estimated how far above the ground they were.

Down the hall, a clamor of guards – finally alerted so someone's presence in the castle – began to head towards the rooms.

Gawain made a run for Gaheris, who was standing on the bed, sword drawn, frozen in shock. Gawain took the sword and threw it out the window after Lamorak.

“What's going on?” the guard who took the lead demanded.

“You useless bastards!” Gawain was shouting as he marched over to the guards, “You let the Queen be raped and then slaughtered by her rapist while you, what, take advantage of her trust to drink? Bed a whore? Gamble?” he slapped the lead guard for good measure, “Get out! Flee this kingdom before I change my mind and see fit you should join her or the bastard laying dead at the bottom of the moat!”

The guards ran. Gawain counted to twenty before he let himself sink to his knees and weep for his mother.

–

“God that was,” they'd buried them mother beneath a pile of stones next to the castle walls and left Lamorak at the bottom of the moat, “that was. That happened.” Gareth wasn't sure what he was trying to say.

“I can't stay here,” Gaheris hadn't stopped shaking, “I can't, I can't, I can't.”

“Orkney needs a King,” Agrivane looked at Gawain.

“You can stay here,” Gawain told Agrivane, “act as regent.”

“What?” Agrivane seemed more shocked at that than their mother's death.

“You think I put myself through everything to be the King?” Gawain scoffed, “I did that to fix myself.”

“But you said, quite specifically, _I understand if you do not accept me as your eldest son_ when you told them what Aunt Morgan had done for you,” Agrivane blanched.

“Because that was, on technicalities, what I became,” Gawain pointed out, “It was accept that or I'd see myself banished while they cursed my soul for _disfigurement_ Gawain spat out the word, “As if father hadn't still used the word in private.”

“But are you sure,” Agrivane asked, “Are you sure you'd want me as acting King?”

“You can be the actual King for all I care,” Gawain tried to assure him, “I'll go back to Camelot with Gaheris. Being in charge was never for me.”

“I,” Agrivane drew back, his tone changed when he spoke again, “thank you.”

“Always you four,” Gawain repeated, “Always.”

“I'd like to stay here,” Mordred said, “at least while I sort out how I think about everything.”

“Of course,” Agrivane nodded, “Gareth?”

“I'll return to Camelot,” Gareth said, “'It will not be strange to stay by Gaheris, but if Gawain does the others may think something amiss.”

“What have I done?” Gaheris whispered.

His brothers held him as he let the reality of his rage shape the rest of his life.


	6. Lies Our Bodies Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot's happened and Gawain's mind refuses to let him enjoy anything anymore.
> 
> CW: non-explicit sex

He'd been on a quest, in theory, alone and wandering the lands. Perhaps he was still questing after the Grail despite knowing he would never achieve it. Hell, if _Lancleot_ had seen the Grail and only succeeded in being blinded by its beauty or its curse or something, Gawain didn't stand a chance.

Bors and Bors alone had come back from that Quest. Percival, sweet but often daft Percival, had died on the way there. Galahad – Lancelot's son that everyone but Lancelot himself seemed to realize was his son – not only made it to the heart of the Grail Castle, but also been taken up to Heaven by a choir of angels. Had anyone but Bors told the story, Gawain would have laughed them our of the country. But there was something to Bors' haunted eyes that Gawain knew he was telling the truth.

Bors had become secluded, sullen, rarely partaking in, well, anything anymore, choosing instead to hide from the world.

Gareth and Gaheris, too, spent most of their time hidden away together when they were not required to be present for something.

Gawain was alone. Again.

He'd been married once, too, under extreme duress. He had been given a choice: Marry this woman or watch her die. And Gawain, despite how few of his once-precious morals he held dear to his soul remained intact, could not let her die because the idea of marriage horrified him.

He'd taken it as a personal slight that she had never wanted to bed him, but supposed it made a little more sense when she'd disappeared one day, leaving only a note explaining she'd returned to the world from which she came, and was thankful for his mercy and his patience while she found her way home. He had been loyal to her, despite his reputation, and perhaps it was the years of celibacy that spurned him to start to saying yes to anyone who asked.

Which was exactly how he found himself atop a stranger, a wondering woman with a pet sparrow hawk who'd been traveling the same road as him when a storm broke open without warning. They'd taken shelter under a shrine at her suggestion.

And, well, when she'd asked him to help her pass the time until the storm let up in the most primal of ways, he saw no reason to refuse her. His body was lost in hers, but his mind was elsewhere.

–

It had been months, at least, since he'd seen Sir Cei at the Round Table. There had been a falling out between him and Arthur that had only lead Cei down a path of self-destruction and, as far as anyone could tell, Cei was still doing his duties that allowed him to slide into the baground, not unlike a shadow among already dark shadows.

Even Bedivere refused to speak of Cei, and seemed to have moved rooms to a completely different part of the castle.

–

The woman whose name he hadn't bothered to register nonetheless remember gasped beneath him.

–

His letters to Agrivane and Mordred had gone unanswered, and he genuinely did not know of they were ignoring him or if neither of them had ever learned how to read. If it was the former, it stung on the best of days and wonded him on a level he could not tend to on most days. If it was the latter, how he could not know something so crucial escaped him.

Perhaps he had not cared for his brothers as much as he thought he had. What if, he feared, he cared more about the idea of being invested in his brothers' successes than he'd cared about actually knowing who they were as individuals?

Gaheris had turned into an easily startled man, jumping at everything and flinching away from conflict of any time. His rage had been tamed, but the taming left him a shell of a man he could have been had they decided to confront Mordred's father instead of their mother.

–

The woman flipped Gawain on his back, his head striking the shrine.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Gawwain assured her.

“Good,” she said with a small laugh

For a moment, Gawain did his best to pretend he was still present, still involved in whatever it was he was doing. He would rather be someone's toy than be alone with his thoughts in a storm like this.

–

It was possible Gaheris' rage had not been tamed, only replanted itself in Gawain. Perhaps that was why Gaheris seemed to be a shell and Gawain's body count had increased exponentially, both in combat and in bed.

Truth be told, Gawain was sure he's slaughtered more men in arguments than he'd successfully resolved arguments over the past several years. His silver-tongued weavings that got him into any situation – and also out of a number of situations – had tarnished and the silver-colored steel of his blade was the only luster he could bring to any given situation.

–

Gawain felt the woman quivering, the best kind of quivering, atop him, briefly, before hi smind pulled his awareness back into his personal darkness.

–

His Uncle, his King, also seemed to have only become more paranoid with age. Whether he feared Mordred knew the truth and would seek the throne he was owed or something else, Gawain did not know. It seemed most days Camelot was without her King, left to the will and mercy of an increasingly sparsely populated Round Table.

–

Somewhere, Gawain's brain was aware the sun was cresting over the horizon, the storm having broken overnight, and he was atop her – again? Still?

“You're insatiable, aren't you?” she asked despite seemed just as starved of whatever it was Gawain was seeking.

“Constantly,” Gawain replied.

And wasn't that the closest thing to a truth he'd managed for a long time?


	7. Aflame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred and Agrivane expose the affair between the King's Champion and the Queen to absolutely devastating effects.

When Agrivane and Mordred arrived back in Camelot together and without a guard, Gawain knew there was something brewing that held no good for anyone.

Still, he rejoiced in seeing them again, the both much more affectionate with him than the last time they were all in Camelot. Gawain did his best to focus on their affections and not why they had yet to disclose their reasons for traveling alone and so swiftly they each rode through a horse on their journey.

–

“Gawain,” Gareth was the one to grab him from the hall this time, “please follow me.”

“Always,” Gawain echoed the promise he'd wished he'd made earlier and more often.

–

“The King's Champion is bedding the Queen,” Mordred said as soon as the door to Gaheris' rooms was closed.

“How do you know?” Gawain thought it was a reasonable question.

“You know how the King and Queen both make visits to Kingdoms with which they have trade agreements?” Mordred asked, then continued without waiting for anyone to say anything, “Well, it turns out the King is the only one who handles the trade contracts, and the Champion trusts Agrivane enough to leave Arthur alone with him.”

“You saw them,” Gawain didn't have to guess, he could tell by the way Mordred was speaking that he'd seen it with his own eyes, “But what brings you _here_ over that?”

“There are some incomplete or unupdated sections in a few of the contracts,” Agrivane said – and Gawain realized they _could_ read, they'd simply ignored his letters.

“And you wish to lure the King away so that someone may catch them in the act,” Gawain hoped he was wrong. Despite his hopes, Mordred and Agrivane nodded. Gawain decided then and there that the gods of old and new alike had forsaken Camelot.

“What good do you hope will come of that?” Gawain asked, “I will not stop you, nor will I speak to anyone of your intentions or plans, but I...I just want to know.”

“We'd have an empire,” Mordred's eyes were bright, hopeful, a look Gawain had never seen on his middle brother, “An empire that would stretch the entire land, an empire to make Rome herself envious!”

“Camelot's going to fracture under itself sooner than later,” Gawain said with a sigh, “All my letters have spoken of it.”

“What letters?” Mordred blurted, “You haven't written us since you left!”

“I've written you at least five times a year!” Gawain cried.

“Not one,” Agrivane frowned, “Who did you send your letters through?”

“Serving boys and girls,” Gawain has a sinking feeling those letters had been brought to the King, his Uncle's paranoia not wanting anyone to sow discord outside of the Court. He felt sick to his stomach.

“Huh,” was all Mordred said, but Gawain had a feeling his brothers had come to a similar conclusion, if not an identical one.

–

It was easy to lure their Uncle into a shut room to discuss trade negotiations, and easier still for Mordred and Gareth to go seek the Queen under the guise of wanting to spend time with their Aunt, two hapless guards about to serve as their witnesses escorting them to the Queen's rooms.

Lancelot fled, leaving the Queen to defend herself, still mostly naked, to her King, her husband, and a small group of Knights serving as both jury and judge. She sobbed more than she spoke, her heart-wrenching apologies serving as proof of her guilt.

When the jury did indeed find her guilty, Arthur sentenced her to death the following morning, to be burned at the stake in the main courtyard. Gawain knew this meant he would be nowhere near full strength, his magics having turned out to be much more of a curse than a boon.

–

There was a shattering of not only the Round Table but the entire Court, Lancelot's sympathizers, Knights who believed in love for love's sake more than they did the absolute rule of the King fleeing to find their new leader. At the end of it all, even those who still followed Arthur did so from a respectable distance, Bedivere and only Bedivere unfailingly at Arthur's side as he had been his entire life.

“Uncle, please,” Gawain pleaded with Arthur, “You can call it off, find Lancelot and burn _him_ instead!”

“And be the King who let treason go unpunished?” Arthur snapped, “Be seen as weaker than I already am with so many gone to follow that bastard?”

The echoes of the first time Lancelot had shown up, Arthur's willingness to risk both his wife's and his foster-brother's lives in order to not appear weak by paying for their release suddenly taking on a new light.

This was not a just King, this was not a King who wanted equity. This was a King who'd heard of how suddenly his own father had lost control and lost his life that he was willing to to _anything_ to keep it.

Including down babies.

Including burn his own wife at the stake.

“If you burn her and not him, it will only serve to galvanize his supporters!” Gawain tried a different approach.

“Then we will slaughter each and every one of those traitors!” Arthur snarled, something beyond horror, beyond madness in his eyes, “We will take them to War and we will win because failure is not an option. My Court saw the Grail achieved! **MY COURT** saw the kingdoms united! We. Will. NOT. Lose.”

Gawain fled, wondering if Bedivere would still stand beside their King if he had heard Arthur just then, if he had seen how little sanity the man had left about him.

–

News that attending the burning was mandatory under threat of receiving the mark of a traitor spread through the castle swiftly. Even more fled in the middle of the night, whether on the fence over which side they were on and the ordered witnessing of the Queen's death pushing them over the edge or the scent of the King's madness driving them away, not unlike a deer who scents a wolf pack on the breeze.

Gawain decided he would stay, primarily because Gareth and Gaheris were staying, but in a show of defiance they would go unarmed, unwilling to fight should Lancelot and his men stage a rescue.

–

When dozens of men stormed the courtyard as the flames began to spread over the pyre, no one was _surprised_ , exactly, but also no one was prepared for the sheer ferocity they came in with, all mounted, most fully armored, all with swords and maces and flails swinging, a clear message to either get out of the way or fight.

To call the scene chaos would have been a kindness. The smell of blood and piss and shit took over the smell of the smoke quickly, people in fear or in death emptying themselves. Most of the witnesses had never seen combat, never seen death, so all they could do was freeze or worse, trample each other in a failed attempt at an exodus.

Gawain made for the pyre and took refuge under it, a handful of others doing the same. It was crushed towards the middle of the poorly decided upon shelter that he saw Gaheris' lifeless form hit the ground.

Gawain screamed as if it was him who had been wounded, shoving people out of the way so he could hold his brother, protect him from being trampled under the completely unfair rescue. He wept as he dragged Gaheris' lifeless form under the pyre.

–

There was no honor in the rescue, the Queen missing once all Lancelot's men had vanished or fallen, countless dead on both sides despite how under-armed Camelot's few loyalists had been. It was easier, now, for Arthur to rally men to fight, planning to find and attack Lancelot by the time the next sun rose.

Gawain knew Mordred would use the ensuing violence to claim the throne, to sap what little true power, power not rooted in fear or hate or anger that Arthur still had left over the Court he still believed was his. He knew Agrivane would have ridden out for Orkney to ready his men should they need to support Mordred in his claim.

When Gareth, too, had been found among the dead, slaughtered in his youth, unarmed, his only sin being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Gawain knew what his role in the impending carnage was.

He needed vengeance.


	8. All My Heart's Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain is out for blood.

It hadn't taken much to find Lancelot, in all honesty. Gawain had simply followed the trail of hoof prints and bloodied armor, using the periodic bodies on the side of the road as confirmation he was going the right way.

He'd left with only a sword strapped to his waist and a bridle over someone else's horse – the first horse he could capture in the field and slip the bridle onto – and kicked the beast into a run. From there he'd used his need to avenge his brothers to stay on the beast.

–

“LANCELOT!” Gawain was yelling as soon as he found the camp, “LANCELOT!”

He was surrounded by near a dozen faceless men almost instantly, his horse lunging and kicking two of them before they killed his horse under him. Gawain was able to get out of the way, the beast's legs taking three more Knights out as it went down.

“STAND DOWN!” Lancelot's voice was booming in a way Gawain hadn't know was possible. The frail, smart-but-hesitant Champion was every inch worthy of leading these men, but all Gawain could see was a need for blood.

“Lancelot,” Gawain repeated, his teeth clenched and his sword already drawn, “Your fucking rescue got my brothers killed!”

“So you come here to tell me that?” Lancelot seemed horribly confused, “Why?”

“I come here to avenge them,” Gawain was shaking so violently it was a miracle in and of itself he kept his grip on his weapon, “Get your sword, Champion, and give me the last thing on this God-forsaken **planet** my heart desires!”

Lancelot hesitated, so clearly weighing refusing the duel against losing face in front of everyone who'd heard the challenge. This was, after all, a think that was erupting into war over the very spirit of what Arthur had claimed to have sustained Camelot.

“Someone fetch my sword,” Lancelot said at last, “Secure an area where we will be able to duel on even footing, without tripping over rocks and twigs.”

Gawain hoped Lancelot tripped over nothing.

–

“You don't have to do this,” Lancelot said as soon as one of hen called for the duel to start.

They'd been given much, much more room than was probably required, none of the men wanting to get in the way of a man willing to go to war for love and a man out for revenge for the blood of his family.

“Yes I do,” Gawain snarled.

He had, somehow, never sparred with Lancelot one-on-one. Ever the one to fight for fairness – and what a fucking joke that was, Gawain now knew – Lancelot also took the field with no armor. 

Gawain realized the girdle – the one thing he had never, never gone with out – hung in his rooms as a castle he had no desire to go back to.

He cursed inwardly and lunged at Lancelot, who took half a step to the side before blocking Gawain's sword with his own. Lancelot deflected, sending Gawain backwards two paces before he stopped his feet from taking him further.

Gawain squared up again, more rage than thought, and lunged again, only to be met with a different block with the same effect.

This happened again and again, Lancelot not making a move, only blocking, while Gawain grew increasingly furious, strikes coming with less and less time between them.

“We can call a draw,” Lancelot said as he blocked Gawain yet again, “Please, Gawain, we can call it a draw.”

“You're a coward who can't face what's he's done,” Gawain snarled.

He tried to wrench his sword free of the blocking position to strike Lancelot's neck...

...his sword loosed itself...

…and Lancelot's sword found itself lodged between two of Gawain's ribs.

“Shit,” Lancelot hissed, instinctively drawing his sword back. Gawain yelped and dropped his own sword, both his hands flying tot he wound. He stumbled backwards.

“You win,” Gawain managed.

“Gawain, please,” Lancelot took a cautious step forward, “let my men treat your wound.”

“I don't want mercy from you,” Gawain spat at his feet, “you fucking coward.”

Gawain left despite Lancelot's please to stay.

–

Gawain wasn't sure where he was, how he'd gotten there, where he was going.

All he knew was it was cold, colder than it should have been, and he was so alone he could have screamed and not disturbed anyone, but he couldn't scream. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs, he couldn't get air in his lungs at all.. He couldn't tell what direction he was headed, but all the sudden the Earth was soft on his knees, then soft against the rest of him.

And then there was Nothing.


	9. Someone Else's Recompense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fall there's the landing.

He knew this place.

He _knew_ this place.

He was back in the Chapel, where he'd first gone to face his death so many years ago, where he learned he'd never been meant to die then, where he'd raged at a forest spirit who made it up to him by making him into the man he'd always wanted to be, physically.

_I will to suffer to become the man I was meant to be._ That was what he had said, wasn't it?

Had he, though? Suffered, sure, but had he become the man he was meant to be?

He didn't think so.

He pulled himself up to his feet, more disturbed by the fact he had to pull himself up to his feet despite being dead than the lack of wound in his side.

He started walking, exiting the chapel to find what seemed to be an infinite stretch of grasslands, broken only by a familiar stream.

Gawain knelt down by the stream, closed his eyes, and waited to see whatever it was he needed to be shown.

–

He was sixteen again, back at Camelot, in the sparring ring for the first time. He watched his younger self duel Bors, but this time, he lunged first instead of waiting for Bors to make his strike.

He hit Bors' sword but was thrown backwards, landing on his back.

–

He was nineteen again, holding the girdle up high, but he was proud of it. This was the safety of Lord Bertilak's house, not at the chapel. He'd given _all_ of his winnings over.

He did not get to see if he still got to experience Bertilak's magics.

–

He was greeting Agrivane as his brother came to court for the first time, a cold thing, a Knight greeting a newcomer rather than brother greeting brother. He screamed at himself to go hug his brother, to go love his family, but to no avail.

–

He was at his mother's bedside, holding onto Lamorak's wrist as he tried to make a jump for it, pointing to Gaheris with his other hand. 

–

He was at the Feast, nineteen again, watching his Uncle chop off their guest's head in the middle of the Feast Hall.

–

He was curled up in front of Cai and Bedivere's fire, half-empty glass of wine in one hand, clearly sobbing.

–

He was taking shelter from a storm under a shrine, the woman's face the face of a hundred people he'd forgotten.

–

He was sobbing into Agrivane's arms back at the Orkney castle, their youngest brothers dead and Mordred back at Camelot ready to stage a coup.

–

He was face-down in the stream suddenly, coughing, sputtering, somehow afraid of drowning even in death.

He rose to his feet again, his body exhausted and his mind blank.

“There you are,” Bertilak's voice came from behind him, “Do you know how long you were there?”

“Is time still a thing?” Gawain asked as he turned around.

“Yes and no,” Bertilak shrugged, “I've missed you.”

“Where were you?” Gawain surprised himself when he felt tears – he was dead, why would he be plagued with something like tears when he was dead? “All these years, why was it never time to see you again?”

Bertilak looked at Gawain with so much pain in his eyes that Gawain could not hold on to his anger. Instead, he let himself fall forward, Bertilak catching him and holding him while he felt every regret, every thing unsaid, undone he wished he could have changed pass, often with vivid detail, until he felt empty.

“What now?” Gawain asked, not removing his head from Bertilak's chest.

“That is entirely up to you,” Bertilak told him, “and what you want.”

“I want,” Gawain took a moment to center himself, “I want to do better.”

Whatever than looked like.

He would suffer all over again to become the man he was meant to be.


End file.
